


Ensnared

by breatheforeverypart



Series: To the Victor Goes the Trauma [7]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dissociation, Emotional Abuse, F/F, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Panem is terrifying, Physical Abuse, President Snow is terrible, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Trauma, Violence, dealing with truly traumatic situations, maladaptive coping mechanisms, prostitution of victors of the hunger games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27336667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breatheforeverypart/pseuds/breatheforeverypart
Summary: Trauma ensnares all the senses.  Each chapter will focus on a specific trigger that hijack's Finnick's life.Please tread carefully, there are explicit details of abuse and traumatic experiences.
Series: To the Victor Goes the Trauma [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1776307
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	1. Reek of Rot

*** Reek of Rot 

Roses. The perfume that permeated the President’s mansion clung to Finnick’s person even after he finds his way back to District Four. The scenery that blurs through the train’s windows drugs Finnick’s brain into anesthetized state. 

The cottage that bears his name was won in blood. Like everything else in his life, it reeks of Capitol obscenity. Snow’s stench permeates his fragile sleep, night after night. He wakes in cold sweat. 

Often, he stumbles into the bath, seeking comfort in what has always provided him with solace. Water. Finnick only realizes he has been submerged in water for hours when his body begins to shiver. No part of him is ever clean enough. Even when the pads of his fingers prune, he cannot comprehend how much time has passed. 

The tub in his cottage is lined with oils and soaps that stink of Capitol money. He can’t bathe in those smells. When he does, the reality of being bought and sold by the obscenely wealthy slams into him. When Annie and Mags have bad days, Finnick cannot afford the thought spirals that leech hours from his day. 

On those days, Finnick takes nights for himself. He reserves the darkness for his own breakdowns. His legs take him past the ghosts that haunt the Victor’s Village, the town square and over the dunes towards the beaches. 

Finnick ignores the weather, he is desperate to register any sensation. In these moments, he understands why Haymitch seeks oblivion at the bottom of a bottle. On numerous occasions, Mags had found him nearly drowned in hurricane force winds trying to claw his way to the ocean. 

The ocean has always saved him. He doesn’t understand why she worries about his safety. The ocean is as volatile and temperamental as he has become. He rages like the waves that erode the beaches of District Four. 

As if it could succeed in killing him now. The more he wants to die, the more immortal he becomes. He doubts that he is human anymore, he’s had his ability to empathize excised with surgical precision. 

Years of servicing clients in the Capitol has left him without compassion. He’s lost count of the ways he’s tried to drown. The weight of his regrets and promises won’t let him sink. His lungs scream with the failure of his attempts each time he surfaces. 

Mags is always there to dry and warm him in front of the fire. He savors the way the saltwater dries on his skin. Since the strokes stole her power of speech and movements, she struggles with everyday tasks. Finnick hates himself for making her care for him. He caused his mother’s death. He does not deserve Mags and Annie’s ministrations. He needs to keep them safe and out of Snow’s reach. Finnick can at least manage that, since he has failed in everything else. 

There are times where the days blur together, hours spent in a prison of his own making. He can only force himself to function by opening a vein. He lets the blood run down the drain of the tub, and wraps the limb in a linen bandage. 

His clients never mind the scars, they find perverse appeal in his flaws. Most citizens don’t see past his face and genitals. They want to dominate him, stake a claim on a once all-powerful Victor of the infamous Hunger Games. 

Once he finds his way to the water, he loses himself completely. Often, he forgets that he is floating in the ocean and has been for hours. Mags and Annie come for him at dusk, saying that sharks will find him appealing. She is teasing, but Finnick fantasizes about their teeth tearing him to pieces. 

On dark days, Finnick thinks death by sea creature would be too kind. The briny water fills his nostrils. The burnings that follows is a painful reminder that he is still alive. Sometimes, this is enough for him to return to the present with Annie and Mags. 

On rare days that don’t begin with nightmares, he rises with the sun and moves without thought. Routine restlessness propels him to run until the drip of his own sweat turns his stomach. He cannot calculate the distance, because running is enmeshed with survival. Survival means that he is still in the arena, fighting for his life. 

In a way, he will never be free of the Games. They will kill him in the end, Snow has all but ensured that. He will die for Snow’s Panem. 

Panic drives his nails into his thighs. The wounds that he caused, prickle with pain. It is not enough. He will always be their property. Their hands wrap around his throat. He can’t breathe. 

The client’s faces taunt him. He can smell the alcohol as they ejaculate on his back. The stench of their bodies overwhelms him, causing him to gag. Their bodies rub against him, despite the fact that when he blinks, they disappear into the fog. 

Snow repeatedly tells him, with the stench of blood on his mouth that his body is how he can keep his replacement family safe. The President is a parasite in his brain. Finnick hears his words all the way in District Four. 

Family. His blood is dead, cremated and returned to the ocean. The ones who remain. The ones who matter, are ghosts like him. They exist half in this world and half in the next. He scoops sand over the puddle of vomit. It will remain a secret, just like his service to Snow. The salty ocean wind pulls the scent of Finnick’s bile away from him. The ocean has always saved him from himself and the ghosts that haunt him. 

“Fin?” Annie smells like home. Her smile warms him from the inside out, like the fireplace in the trio’s cottage. She must have spent the morning baking with Mags. Her fingernails are tinged green. Salted seaweed rolls, Finnick deduces. “Ready for a swim?” She asked him. 

Finnick feels himself nod. Swimming with Annie is safe, a baptism of sorts. The gentle waves have the potential to wash away his sins. 

They will take Mags out past the reef to float. Finnick finds peace in being needed. He is still strong enough to carry her through the rolling waves. Mags’ smile and gnarled hand on his cheek is enough to hold Finnick’s attention. 

Annie dives with perfect form, lifting beautiful shells from the sandy bottom beneath their feet. She fills Mags pockets with these tokens until the old Victor throws her arms around Finnick’s neck. 

She naps as they tread the familiar path towards Victor’s Village. Annie opens their mailbox and screams. She backs herself against the fence, grabbing fistfuls of her hair. 

Finnick’s stomach twists in familiar terror. The package lay were Annie had flung it, genetically perfected roses exploded like a bomb. Mags wriggles in Finnick’s arms, seeking to console Annie. 

He watches from a space above his own body. His remaining family comfort each other while he stays suspended in time like a cornered animal. 

He cannot escape Snow’s reach. 

Finnick closes his eyes and all that penetrates his fear is the stench of rotting roses. 

***


	2. Touch: Leased to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Touch. People's bodies remember what the brain may not be able to process. Finnick's body is covered in layers of scars, both visible and invisible to the naked eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers abound. Please be gentle with yourselves if you may be sensitive to any material related to human trafficking, sexual abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse, physical injuries, self-harm (intentional and unintentional), unhealthy coping mechanisms and suicidal ideation.

***

Finnick had time to muse. He had nowhere he had to be, and even if he did, he would be late. Ignoring the numbness in his wrists he sighed. Mason would find him in yet another compromising position. He was half naked, loosely wrapped in sheets that cost more than District 12’s annual grain budget. 

Ties that bind. 

Blood is thicker than water. 

The meaning of words erodes over time. Finnick has spent every second of his life since his Games oscillating between the extremes of attachment. 

Finnick considers himself too jaded to form new connections. Physical relations are an occupational hazard. He is bound to President Snow and his gang of sycophants. Finnick complies in order to spare his surviving family from destruction. 

Johanna Mason. Is she a twisted sister in his gnarled family of survivors? If she was a part of his clan, then Haymitch had to be an uncle or a deranged cousin. Relationships forged through horrific victories in the Hunger Games were still relationships after all. 

Finnick would never call Cash or Enobaria for help, but that didn’t mean the he was unsympathetic to their lives as Victors. Capitol citizens paid a heavy sum for their company. They had people to protect, just like Finnick. 

Right on cue, Johanna stomped into the suite. Anytime their appointments dovetailed, they exchanged copies of room keys. It had saved their lives on more than one occasion. 

“Is stupidity catching, Odair? I was having an orgasmic breakfast with someone tall, dark and idiotic.” 

Finnick’s laugh morphed into a cough. Droplets of blood flecked the pristine bedding. 

“Someone’s got a fetish huh?” 

“Our usual kinks, Jo. Nothing out of the ordinary.” 

“Because our lives are so normal huh.” Johanna flopped on the mattress, spreading her limbs over the impossibly soft duvet. 

Finnick jabbed her ribs with a foot. “Mason, are you gonna leave me here?” 

“Relax.” She yawned. “The creeps I get never book rooms in hotels like this.” 

“Come on, Jo.” He whined. “I’m cold.” He kicked his legs like a petulant child, making the mattress bounce. 

She quirked an eyebrow. “Are you telling me that the rumors of your body have been greatly exaggerated?” 

“Oh, piss off.” 

“Oh?” Johanna smiled wickedly. “I’ll get back to brunch then. It’s too expensive to waste.” 

Finnick growled. He lunged for Johanna, but was stopped by the ties that tethered both arms to the bed frame. 

Johanna laughed, but released him from his prison. “Now, are you gonna buy me lunch?” 

He rubbed at his wrists, mottled with constricted blood flow. “Is my last appointment’s tab still open?” He tilted his chin in the direction of the tablet on the nightstand.” 

Johanna huffed triumphantly. “Lucky us.” 

“Get whatever you want.” He knew what he needed to do. Scrub himself until a couple layers of skin washed down the drain. He still needed to purge whatever his last client had drugged him with. There was going to be one hell of a hangover once the buzz wore off. 

“Done.” She crossed her legs and surveyed the digital menu. “Fin, got any preference? Waffles, oatmeal, steak?” 

“Bathroom.” The mere mention of food was enough for his gag reflex to engage. His hands were numb and wouldn’t hold the shroud of a sheet around his waist. His vision began to tunnel as he stood. 

“Wait!” Johanna cried, cursing like any seasoned lumberjack from her home district. 

Finnick didn’t hear her warning. 

His body screamed its own caution as an imaginary ocean roared in his head. 

Instead he crashed to the floor in a dead faint. 

***

“Asshole.” The disembodied voice barely registered. Finnick had developed a system to survive Snow’s trafficking. He actively worked to ignore the cadence of their voices. Their touch burned every inch of his skin. 

“Stubborn to a damn fault.” Hands hauled him upright and pinned him to a tiled wall. The smooth frozen material jarred him enough to open his eyes. 

He teetered on the edge of dissociation. “Odair, are you looking at me? Or through me?” Bony hands jerked his chin towards the ceiling of the room. 

Mason’s touch triggered his fall into the familiar oblivion. He lost time, memories burying him in grief and pain. 

“Finnick.” 

Something unusually soft lay heavy in his lap. Odd, Finnick prickled at the stark difference in this treatment. People did not offer him kindness, not without expectation of services. 

No one added clothes to his body, they always tore them off. Do robes count as clothes? Finnick shivered, despite the fluffy fabric. The whole being unconscious thing wasn’t unfamiliar. 

Johanna pulled the robe closed around her friend’s chest. “I told you not to move, but do you ever listen to me? No. You and Haymitch are going to be the death of me.” 

Finnick’s face was wet. He shuddered involuntarily. He had to please the client or he would kill them. He would be forced back to District Four. He would find Mags and Annie dead, murdered in innocuous ways. Finnick couldn’t bear finding their bodies, retelling the lies that President Snow spun some effortlessly. He couldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t. 

“Enough!” Hands pinned his arms across his chest. “Finn, stop.” 

“Jo?” He croaked, blinking in the harsh fluorescent light. Johanna’s face faded and sharped along with the pounding of Finnick’s headache. His mother’s corpse taunted him. Officials in District Four had been bribed to rule her death a drowning. He had laughed at the absurdity of the situation, his mother a lifelong swimmer, dead after swimming in an ocean she had known her entire life. 

Jo squeezed his leg. “Who the fuck else would it be?” 

“Haymitch.” Finnick tried to joke, but his voice sounded sad, even to his own ears. 

“Screw you.” Johanna rubbed his shoulders and cleared her throat. 

They spent the rest of the day in bed after Avox’s changed the sheets. Johanna ordered the entire selection of breakfast, lunch and dinner items. 

She got sloshed on sugary juices and laughed in her stupor. Finnick caught a glimpse of who she had been before the Hunger Games. While she napped on the abundance of pillows, Finnick’s thoughts returned to his body. She had made a cozy nest for herself and fallen into an unusually sound slumber. 

Finnick envied her nap, then mentally smacked himself for allowing jealousy slip into his mind. He had showered earlier, but the impressions of their fingers clung to his thighs. His skin burned.   
Johanna had prevented him from taking off his usual quadruple layers of skin. Finnick had feigned indifference, but his anxiety had begun to spike. 

His prep team would work their usual magic before his next appointment. They never asked, even though his wounds were obviously caused by Snow’s clients. 

Their salves and serums erased the finger shaped bruises from his neck and hips. It worked better than his own methods of tearing pieces of skin with soap and a loofa. 

He dragged himself through the usual post-appointment routine. The President of Panem insisted on perfection. His body must adhere to the standards of the Capitol cliental. Snow’s voice taunted him in his measured, manipulative tone. 

Finnick had no way of telling how much time had passed. Brains were notoriously fickle. Every memory had been warped by his experience in the Hunger Games. Snow’s lies infected his mind and corrupted every decision he made. 

He closed the thin glass door, trapping the steam of the shower in the stall. 

The razor tempted him, but he couldn’t explain those kinds of marks to the team tomorrow. That would be too brazen, too obvious. Finnick had learned to embed the injuries in the usual souvenir scars from clients. 

Instead, he heated the water to just under boiling. 

Finnick used dozens of soaps, numbing himself in the shower’s spray. The potent synthesized bubbles blurred together until he couldn’t smell the putrid roses that melted his brain. 

His sins washed down the drain. 

He scrubbed until all of the water that ran off his body was tinged with blood. The copper odor hung in the damp air. 

Finally satisfied, Finnick wrapped himself in towels. 

He wedged himself between the sink and the toilet. Rocking allowed him to disconnect from his body. His raw skin clung to the fibers of the towel. The beginnings of the scabs ripped open with his compulsive movements. 

His body would have to wait to heal, until Finnick’s brain could register the sorry state of his tortured skin. And so, the cycle continued. 

***


	3. Gagged to Grin and Bear Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taste is a powerful sense. Finnick's stomach was intertwined with his sense of control. On bad days, everything he that touched his tongue dragged him back to hell. 
> 
> Swallowing his own saliva caused him to vomit. Haymitch gives him space, but the reprieve is brief. After all, it's time for the Hunger Games. 
> 
> The usual trigger warnings apply to this chapter. It has to do with taste and disordered behaviors in regards to eating and control. References to prostitution, rape and human trafficking.

***

Cosmetics had a distinctive taste. Synthetic and chemical based foundations gagged Finnick. 

The annual Hunger Games meant that he had multiple bookings a day. Each dawn brought new hell to Finnick’s already complicated life. President Snow had itinerary delivered to his private suite on rose scented stationary. 

His prep team must spend a fortune on serums and concealing lotions. Their chatter buzzed around his head. In an odd way, Finnick was comforted by their naivety. They had grown up shrouded in pseudo comfort. They crafted fragile personas from absurd fashion and garish makeup. 

Finnick pulled the faux fur hood over his head. His jaw throbbed painfully, he was certain that a bruise was blooming. 

He learns to avoid ingesting anything in the hours before and after his appointments. Nothing is worth spending time curled over a toilet, even a Capitol toilet. 

Haymitch bumped against the bathroom door. “Odair, are you gonna be in there all morning?”

Finnick spit a wad of saliva into the toilet. “What’s it to you?”

“’S not.” He answered gruffly. “My tribute’s dead.” He had been impulsive and greedy at the initial bloodbath. Finnick had warned him not to engage with the Career pack. He knew the tributes from 1 and 2 were particularly psychopathic and would not play nice with District 4. 

“What a coincidence.” He flushed and closed the lid. “So’s mine.” That was no surprise. District 12 hadn’t had a Victor since Haymitch had snatched a win in his controversial Games. Every Victor since, knew that he had been punished by Snow for refusing to play the part of a grateful Victor. 

The bathroom door creaked open and a hungover Haymitch approached him. “Getting drunk isn’t like you. Not during the Games.” 

Finnick exhaled shakily. The man looming over him wasn’t a threat. He wasn’t on Snow’s list of cliental. 

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “I’m not.” He tried stay in the moment as his mind tried to escape his body. 

Anger flashed across Haymitch’s face.   
“Can’t do much for you.” The older man extracted a flask from the pocket of his coat. Everything about his clothing felt sharp and unlike him. His stylist Effie had done her best to make him appear fresh, but had only succeed in making him look like a haunted clown. 

“Mags?” He accepted the container from the older Victor and sniffed. 

“Mason’s with her. I’m not sure how their tributes are alive, but the Capitol’s on tenterhooks per usual.” His drawl dripped with sarcasm. 

Finnick returned the flask to Haymitch without taking a sip. “They’ll all be dead eventually.” 

He nodded. “I’m assuming we’re not gonna be heading to the Mentor’s hall for the buffet?” 

Finnick greyed like a rotten fish. “You’re damn lucky I don’t fillet you for mentioning f-o-o-d.” 

Haymitch grunted. “Oof. Been there, I’ve got some magic capsules around here somewhere. Takes the edge off the nausea.” 

“Capitol meds?” He quirked an eyebrow. Finnick wasn’t sure he would be able to function unless he took the older man up on his offer. 

“Quality.” He unearthed a pair of purple pills from one of the many pockets in his pants. 

He swallowed the proffered drugs dry and cracked his neck. The vertebrae of his spine popped in quick succession as he twisted into a standing position. 

Victors did not have the luxury of sick days. Their status did make them special in the view of Panem. Finnick knew that inhabitants of individual districts hated them, he hated himself so he understood their loathing. 

So, he dressed in the ridiculously suggestive outfit his prep team laid out for him. 

He swallowed the nausea. Bile caught in his throat, burning his esophagus. He could fake pleasure, flirt with the sleazy Capitol cliental, and accept punishments that would drive any sane person to insanity. 

Finnick added a silk scarf to cover the necklace of bruises his latest client had left as a parting gift. 

Haymitch lumbered towards the door to the suite. “After you, Odair.” 

Lucky him. The upside-down world of the Capitol awaited his company. 

Finnick tested out a new smile. “Well, you are by far my favorite escort.” His teeth felt fuzzy from the hours of vomiting. 

The older man guffawed. “Don’t expect me to put on a show, I ain’t Capitol bred.” He handed Finnick a bottle of water, swiped from the min-bar. “Speaking of, you ready for the zoo?”

“Always.” Finnick treated every aspect of his life like President Snow was watching. He was, Finnick knew it wasn’t PTSD induced paranoia. He lived like a wounded lion, caged in captivity. To the casual viewer he looked well-fed and lucky to reside in a beautiful habitat. 

Only his fellow Victors knew the truth. 

***

“Goddamn brainwashed idiots.” Haymitch muttered as the doors to the Mentors’ Hall locked behind them. 

“You better watch your mouth.” Finnick elbowed the older man. They knew cameras and Peacekeepers were watching them 24/7. The elegance of the Hall didn’t fool any of the survivors. 

The average Capitol citizen would be tricked into jealousy at the endless buffets and rich fabrics, but Finnick didn’t give a shit about them. His only concern was keeping his chosen family safe. 

Victors gathered in small groups, glancing at dozens of monitors. Elongated tables laden with platters of food steamed in front of him. Finnick suppressed a shudder, trying very hard not to heave. 

“Late night?” Gloss teased, adding another scoop of potato hash to his already full plate.

Finnick plastered a smile to his face and made his way down the buffet opposite the Career Victor. “Oh, nothing unusual about that.” He made himself a plate, struggling to maintain a placid expression as nausea rocked his stomach. 

Cashmere glided over to her brother and snatched a crispy slice of bacon from his plate. “What are you doing here?” 

As she chewed, Finnick caught the faint outline of bruising around her throat. The asshole that had throttled him last night had visited the siblings too. 

“You gonna finish that?” Haymitch grunted from somewhere behind Finnick’s shoulder. 

He shook his head. “Nope.” He had completely forgotten what his hands held. Relief washed over him like a calm wave on a breezy day. Maybe the storm in his stomach would ease if he stopped eating for the rest of the Games. 

“Excellent.” The plate disappeared. “I’ve gotta make my annual trip here worthwhile.” He stuffed an unidentifiable appetizer into his mouth and swallowed it whole. 

Haymitch winked at Finnick and sought out the company of another prick of a Victor, Chaff from District Seven. 

He wandered around the opulent hall, going through the motions of being a confident Victor. He pretended to study the children displayed on the screens. Finnick found himself at District Seven’s corner. 

Johanna had a cup of tea and was standing over a seated Mags. A surge of protective instincts overwhelmed him. He found himself wrapping an arm around the old woman and pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

She twisted her arthritic fingers in his. “Hello dear. Where have you been?” 

“Oh, just ensuring some connections.” Was that what they called prostitution these days, Finnick pondered. “How are you holding up?” He addressed his mentor with a sad chuckle. 

She shrugged. “Johanna and I have been deciding what items would best suite our Annie and Oak. How much do we have to spend?” 

He waved off his fellow mentor’s concerns. Finnick could always get more blood money, he was quite popular. He hated hearing their names, it made their deaths more personal. He could not afford to feel emotions like that. Rumors among Snow’s ring of Victors had him earning nearly as much as Cash and Gloss did. 

“Let’s hear it.” Finnick carefully lowered himself into one of the luxury office chairs. His hips ached and his insides protested his body folding in half. 

Johanna offered him her tea. The hot ceramic warmed his hands and anchored him to the present hell. The liquid was bitter, just like Mason herself. 

An empty stomach could only help him survive this Hunger Games. His found family talked about the futile attempts to save one of their tributes while Finnick murmured his occasional agreement. 

He couldn’t save anyone in that arena. How could he? When his own mother had died in District Four. Finnick had been stupid enough to say no to a Capitol rapist who had wanted to burn him with matches. The President’s response had been to murder Finnick’s last blood relative. 

He sipped the disgusting tea and considered his options. The day wouldn’t contain any surprises, just more murder and interviews with the press of Panem. 

What was the point, when any Victor would be sentenced to the purgatory Finnick found himself unable to escape from? 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi my dears. <3 Please take care of yourselves. Wear your masks, wash your hands and don't take unnecessary risks. Cases are on the rise nationwide. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Perception of Perversion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories haunt Finnick. The faces of the tributes he had lost came to him at night, they chained themselves to his thoughts. 
> 
> District 13 tries to counsel the fractured Victors. Katniss attempts to connect with him. They bond over portraits of their fallen comrades.

***

Just call Finnick the Picasso of trauma. He favored a dissociative approach when he can afford it with his Capitol appointments. He dissected their faces into unrecognizable fragments. 

The puzzles and mazes of his memories were always missing pieces and Finnick understood why. He glossed over the body parts that made him bleed, that gave him concussions and sucked welts onto his skin. So, he drifted somewhere above his body. 

An earlobe here. 

A mole there. 

The swollen stomach of a man so bloated by his own ego…

Finnick twisted the sheet damp with his own sweat. He exhaled, frustrated that he is now completely awake. Rest would not come after those nightmares. 

A woman’s boot pressed against his trachea. Was that memory what had finally catapulted him out of his head? 

He can’t absorb Snow’s ravenous cliental in their entirety or his mind would shatter. His brain could not process the brutality of his life in bondage. 

Mags is snoring beside him. She is curled on her side, facing him. Finnick pulls the quilt over her thin body. She is old, which is a miracle in Panem. Mags served her time as a Victor before Snow could pull her into his perverse games. 

She never married. Never had a family, not in the traditional sense anyway. Mags adopted Finnick and Annie. She protected them fiercely. 

Finnick watches his mentor, turned mother sleep. She looks fragile in the glow of the fireplace. He knows that she is anything but weak, but he hates how the years have made her vulnerable. Survival made Victors weak in innumerable ways, Finnick knew this was the irony of the Games. They clawed through flesh, muscle and their own humanity to keep their lives, in order to exist in a unique purgatory. 

His thoughts turn to Annie. Finnick is growing used to her presence in the cottage. She was shattered into haphazard shards after her victory in the Games. Mags insisted on taking her in, everyone else in District Four had judged her to be insane. 

She was spending the night with a friend. She and her husband welcomed a baby girl to the family and she was helping them adjust to life with a newborn. It was good for her, at least on the surface. Finnick knew that she held herself to impossible standards. 

She would be forever stunted by the Games. One night away from the cocoon of their cottage could mean a week in bed for Annie. Was the change in routine worth the risk? 

He must have woken in his usual state of calm. Which meant that he nearly blackened Mags’ eye. Again. 

Finnick sighed and eased himself out of the bed. The fire is dying, smoldering embers had begun to smoke. He adds another dried-out piece of driftwood and rocks back on his heels. 

Waiting for dawn could be torturous for any normal person with insomnia. 

Unfortunately for Finnick, his demons stalked him well into the daylight. Most ghosts disappeared in the sun’s boisterous rays. 

He had been a mentor for enough years that the children from District Four came to visit. They vacated their graves and the bones came knocking on the window’s panes. The children cried as they died again and again in screens across Panem. Years passed and his guilt only expanded. It infiltrated his being like a series of tumors and choked his will to live. 

He curled against a wicker sofa, made of tightly woven reeds that Mags had made before the arthritis knotted her joints. Finnick drifted, watching the flames crackle and pop in the fireplace. 

***

“Finnick.” 

He startled, heart pounding against his sternum. The room was dark and formed in concrete prison chic. He found the Girl on Fire’s face first. Hers was one burned into his memory by the hellish landscape of the Quarter Quell. 

If Katniss was here, then Mags was dead. The dominos in his brain felled each other, each brick damned him to this purgatory. District 13 felt like a punishment instead of blessing that everyone assumed it was. 

“Finnick.” The voice was like an alarm, relentlessly nagging at him 

He couldn’t identify the speaker. Were they even real? Maybe they were an illusion, haunting him like the dead tributes that chained themselves to his consciousness. “Jo?” 

“Dr. Aurelius.”

He blinked at the shrink. The wizened doctor didn’t look like the usual ghosts that haunted him. Too clean and too privileged. 

“Well, this has been truly enlightening, but I think it’s time for a nap.” Haymitch feigned a yawn and slapped his thighs. 

The therapist smiled patiently. “Not yet. I would like everyone to share something that anchors them to the present.” 

“Liquor.” The cranky, but sober Victor deadpanned. 

Enobaria flicked her long hair over a shoulder. “Some things never change.” 

The group of Victors sat in silence as a literal clock ticked just above the door. They could overpower the well-groomed doctor, but President Coin would punish them for that with asinine measures. 

“A book. Peeta…” Katniss abandons the thought. His recovery is a question mark, wrapped in quotation marks and underlined in aggression. 

The rope in his hands twists into tight spirals. He can’t focus enough to make knots. Finnick is a boat lost at sea, waves arched over the sides. Apparitions tempted him to the depths. Oblivion ensnared his senses. 

Victors talk, but their voices seem like Jabberjays. He rocks, hands over his ears. Maybe he can return to District Four as a ghost. 

“Hey.” Katniss rotates the caution colored bracelet on her wrist. Her face sharpened as Finnick blinked. Tears fell, but the Mockingjay’s features became clear. 

“Hi.” Finnick could have a conversation, be normal for a moment. Snow laughed at him. The breath of Capitol citizens clogged the air. 

She opens a knapsack make of worn leather, softened by time. Katniss smooths pieces of paper on the floor between them. 

“I can’t draw.” She traces a sketch of Rue with her finger. The girl that sparked the Mockingjay’s revolution in progress. There are dozens of pages with notes splashed with incredible colors. “He makes them real.” 

Peeta. The boy who nearly died in Finnick’s arms. One of the pictures caught his attention. “Mags.” He captured her impish grin and the way that the skin around her eyes crinkled with delight when she was entertained. 

“Yeah.” Katniss nodded, her lips cracked as she resisted the well of emotions that threatened to tear her apart. “Peeta caught her smile.” 

Finnick doesn’t feel the tears trail his cheeks. Katniss continues to speak, talking over the pages with reverence. The flimsy paper surrounds them like a comforting embrace. Ripples of memories flicker through both their minds. 

Occasionally the cadence of her words pulls Finnick towards the present. She points to portraits of Wiress and Gloss. Guilt penetrates the protective fog that surrounded Finnick. 

Mostly, he rocks. Finnick’s back thumping against the concrete walls of District 13 offers little solace. His hands knot the rope without actively acknowledging the familiar loops. 

Annie used to draw in the sand when neither of them could sleep. Mags crafted beautiful mats woven with reeds. Annie buried herself in volumes of books. He had teased her for her nerdy addiction. Now, he cries as the ghosts that haunted him rise to life in Peeta’s drawings. 

The pain increased now that he saw them on paper. But he fought through tears to see them. It was like a stitched wound, he picked at it compulsively. Having tangible pages to hold made all the difference. 

He gasped and sobbed for hours before finally colliding back into his body. The rope fell from his hands as he rubbed his face. “She’s gone.” 

Katniss misunderstood his pain, sliding the sketch of the matronly Victor towards him. “Yeah.” She sobbed, her own tears dropping onto the drawing. 

The picture blurred. Everyone Finnick had ever loved was dead. He was dead too, in every sense, save for his corporeal form. The cottage would feel too big without them. Everything hurt, including drawing breath. 

Katniss sat in respectful, if confused silence as he slugs through the muddy trauma that clogged his lungs. Prim came and went. At some point, Katniss swam into focus with her sister. 

They held him upright and made their way back to the ward. Finnick made knots, running through every knot he had learned as a boy. His fractured mind could not help but conjure memories of the times he had maimed, trapped and murdered with those knots. 

Home sweet home, he thought. Annie hung her arms around his neck and nuzzled his neck. She had been happy. He could not remember her laugh. 

When she came to him in nightmares, she screamed and screamed. He tore through the jungle uselessly tracking her desperate sobs. 

Katniss had died. He saw her the moment before the lightning struck the tree. 

His brain jumped to Johanna. Where was Jo? Johanna. 

“Scoot.” A cool hand cupped his cheek. Cold limbs tucked themselves against his body, under threadbare blankets. “Odair, you better not leave me in this hellhole alone.” 

He leaned into the touch and kept his eyes closed. He could trick himself into believing it was Mags. She had always held him when the monsters threatened and shamed him. Jo would fight the monsters, she had promised to protect him. 

Finnick had failed her. Jo had died in the Capitol, just as he had. The shell of a Victor that burrowed against him was skeletal edges. Sharp points and freezing limbs, like a starving corpse. The Victors haunted District 13, roamed the bunkers as ghosts chained themselves to their thoughts. 

***


	5. Voices of Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tada! That last chapter of exploring how senses are distorted by sexual, physical, emotional abuse and trauma.

***

Breathing. Snoring. Wheezing. The human body was truly disgusting. Capitol luxury could not disguise the revolting truth of rape. Several of his clients drooled enough to soak through the ultra-posh linens after their assault. Violence never prevented them from sleeping well. 

Rumors, assumptions and fabrications compose his likes and kinks. He’s their toy, an escape of sorts from their decadently shallow lives. Their snores are the soundtrack to his panic attacks. Their limp arms, heavy with sleep wrap around him like tentacles. 

“Is there music?” 

Did waves count as a melody? His brain provided a inferior escape for reality. The ocean that surrounded District Four protected him. He sought safety in digging his hands and feet into the sand. 

His skin tingled as phantom granules of sand rolled between his fingertips. Afternoon sun heated his face, but disappeared once he opened his eyes. Dim District 13 survival lights greeted him. 

“Sometimes we had music at weddings. When I was a kid, my father would sing.” 

Finnick rocked to the rhythm of his fear. Every other word of Katniss’s story stuck in Finnick’s brain. 

He couldn’t make sense of her words; his attention span lasted the length of his approved rope. But the sound of her voice was known to him. 

“If the peacekeepers could be bribed, the music lasted all night. I can’t remember any of the songs. They’re dead now. No one remembered.” 

Sleep did not offer Finnick solace. If anything, being unconscious intensified the scenes of his nightmares. Forgetting would be a blessing. 

Forgetting might let him sleep. Not that he deserved to rest. A version of the arena was chained to his consciousness and followed him every second of every day. 

***

“Odair.” Haymitch slid the tray along the benched table. “Nice to see you out and about.” 

He considered the mashed turnips and potatoes concealing on the tinned plate. Finnick pushed the mass towards the older Victor without a word. 

“Don’t let ‘em see you, or we’ll both be punished.” 

Finnick flinched and tucked his knees under his chin, balancing precariously on the skinny bench. 

Haymitch shoveled the extra portion of mush with the practiced speed of a man familiar with starvation. “Why’d they let you outta the nuthouse?” 

He shrugged, rubbing the worn rope. Prim sat on the opposite end of the extended table. She would not let anything bad happen to him, or at least that’s what she said. A small part of Finnick believed her. The more jaded parts knew that nothing could save him from Snow. 

The emergency speakers creaked to life. Infamous horns blared, signaling the superiority of Panem to all lesser forms of life. The cafeteria snapped to attention, hundreds of pairs of legs positioned themselves towards screens. 

Notes that had dictated his entire life, raked knives across his very skeleton. The melody scraped the marrow from his bones. 

Snow cracked open his skull and poured acid into his brain. The triumphant music swooped and soared. He had to dampen the haunting notes. Anything to stop the recording that embedded itself in his brain. 

He had to bleach himself clean. The tune equaled the immeasurable pain inflicted regularly by his Capitol cliental. 

***

Johanna’s lungs hated her. She gripped the metal stand with both hands as she tried to breath without her fractured ribs grinding together. 

“Who the hell approved this?” 

“Me.” Prim peeled off her gloves. 

“Oh. The princess of coal dust controls the media in District 13?” 

Color flushed her cheeks, but she stood her ground. “Obviously not. My sister would know more about all that. My concern is with Finnick and his needs. Like most of my patients, he needs to be around people. Communal meals are part of an established treatment plan.” 

“Wow, what a cure. A true miracle.” 

“Listen, you have a decision to make Johanna. To live in the past and destroy yourself with that.” Prim punched a code on the lockbox of drugs running through her veins. 

Johanna snarled and yanked the tube from the crook of her elbow. “You’re an expert?”

“I don’t claim to be.” Prim peeled the wrapper from a small bandage and offered it to the skeletal Victor. “I do what is best for my patients, Finnick needs a friend. Someone who knows what he’s lost.” 

“And I do?” Johanna smeared the beaded blood. “I’m not that kind of person. The one who listens and cares.” 

“It’ll be our secret.” Prim signed Odair’s medical chart, pocketing a rare writing implement. 

Johanna scoffed. There was no safe secret. Secrets were currency in the Capitol. Words spoken in hotel rooms were how Finnick had survived so long. He had tricked himself into believing that he was in control.   
She had never been able to lie, even as a child she failed to hide the truth of an accident. Now, The Girl on Fire’s sister was asking her to do the impossible. 

How could she comfort a man whose mind had been shattered like one of Snow’s crystal vases? Johanna couldn’t make it more than a couple hours without seeking the oblivion of morphling. Haymitch’s smirking face clouded her mind. “That’s it sweetheart.” The drunken man selfishly destroyed himself in a bizarre attempt to protect himself. 

Johanna licked the pad of her finger, wiping at the dried blood. Chemicals lingered on her tongue, the remnants of her latest infusion of numbing drugs. 

Choice. She had a sliver of agency in District 13. These words thrummed through her brain as her body pointed itself towards Finnick. 

***

“Finnick, what have you done?” 

He continued to breath in a medicated stupor, so Johanna mimed an answer. “Oh, you know Jo. Just making stupid, impulsive decisions.” 

She undid the buckles of the cloth restraints. “I thought they only made these in the sleazy Capitol hotels.” 

Finnick remained silent. Johanna inspected the gauzy bandage taped over his ear. The ward had gone eerily quiet since Haymitch had been sedated. He had been confused and living two realities when he had carried Odair from the cafeteria. His eyes had been wild, scanning an old arena for threats that had long since passed. 

She touched the lump that made up his ear. Prim had said that the damage could be permanent, but they would not know for sure until the swelling subsided. 

That damned anthem had caused her closest ally to jab a fork into his ear canal. He was desperate enough to try anything to drown out Snow’s hysterical nonsense. 

Johanna could relate. She eased herself onto the thinly padded gurney. “Well, move your bony ass over. I’m cold.” 

She slid between the starchy sheets. Johanna’s corpse-like limbs shivered when she contacted Finnick’s bones. Her body tensed and released as tremors rolled off her in waves. Her teeth chattered, a special side effect of withdrawal and her malnourished, tortured body. 

“Mason, too cold.” He grunted. 

“Shut up, Odair.” She shoved the top of her head into his collarbone. 

“Mm.” He murmured, exhaustion pulling at him like the dozens of tributes that haunted him. Their cries mixed with the anthem of Panem as he drifted in and out of Johanna’s icy embrace. 

***


End file.
